In the avenue of bananas leading to the mission I lingered to observe the beauty of the flakes upon the ground.  They are the outside layers of the pendulum of that graceful plant, the purple flower-cone that hangs at the end of the fruit cluster with its volute and royal-hued stem.  The banana-plants, which we call trees, lined the road and stood twenty feet high, their long slender leaves blowing in the light wind like banners from a castle wall.

The flakes that had dropped upon the ground were lovely.  Large as a lady’s veil, ribbed satin, rose and purple, pink and scarlet, the filmy edges curled delicately, they hinted the elegance and luxury of a pretty woman’s boudoir.  And, like all such dainty trifles, the charming flower that hangs like a colored lamp in the green chapel of the banana-grove it is useless after it has served its brief purpose.  The fruit grows better when it is cut off.

Opposite the spacious mission grounds the worshippers were gathering beneath two gnarled banian-trees, giant-like in height and spread.  Behind them a long hedge of bananas bordered the cocoanut plantation of the church, and across the narrow road rose the chapel, the priests’ residence and the nuns’ house, with several school buildings now empty because of the French anti-clerical law.

Exploding Eggs in his new finery and the visiting chief from Vait-hua found welcome among the waiting natives, while Titihuti of the tattooed legs took her seat beside me.  She had combed her Titian tresses and anointed them with oil till they shone like the kelp beds of Monterey.  Her tunic was of scarlet calico, and she carried in her hand a straw hat with a red ribbon, to put on when she entered the church. “Kaoha!” I said to her, and she smiled, displaying her even, white teeth.

Suddenly, looking past her at the church, my eye caught a sight that transfixed me.  In the misty light I saw the Christ upon the cross as on Calvary.  The sublime figure was in the agony of expiration, and at the foot of the cross stood the ever faithful mother and the loving John in attitudes of amazement and grief.  The reality was startling; for the moment I forgot all about me.

But Titihuti coughed, and I saw her tattooed legs and felt the rough roots of the banian under me, and I was back in the courtyard.  The spectacle of the Crucifixion was raised on a basalt platform fully twenty feet long.  The figures were of golden bronze, and the cross was painted white.  Over it hung the branches of a lofty breadfruit-tree, a congruous canopy for such a group.  The Bread of Life, in truth.

A tablet on the cross bore the inscription: 

“1900
Le Christ Dieu Homme
Vit
Regne
Commande
Christo Redemptori
Jubile 1901
Atuona.”

“The tiki of the true god,” said Titihuti, observing my gaze, and crossed herself with the fervor of the believer in a new charm.

On the roof a score of doves were cooing as we filed into the church.  There were bas-reliefs of cherubim and seraphim over the doorway, fat, distorted bodies with wings a-wry, yet with a celestial vision showing through the crude workmanship.  A loop-holed buttress on either side of the facade spoke of the days when the forethought of the builders planned for defence in case a reaction of paganism caused the congregation to attack the Christian fathers.